


keep the car running

by insunshine



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Boston, Boston Bruins, Carolina Hurricanes, Dallas Stars, Edmonton Oilers, M/M, Montreal Canadiens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 21:03:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5980840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insunshine/pseuds/insunshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where instead of playing hockey, they play at being spies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	keep the car running

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, there are so many things to say. When I tell you the completion of this story took a village, I am not being entirely truthful. It was larger than a village -- completing this story took a small principality.
> 
> First of all, I have been writing this thing since the spring of 2013, so the fact that it's actually done right now is nothing short of a miracle. Secondly, I literally could not have finished this ridiculous business without the constant support of my best friend C. Everything is for her, always, but not only has she listened to me whine about this thing for three years, she so graciously took a stab at editing all 18,000 words of it without a single complaint, and there could have been many. I'd also like to thirdly, thank my pal J, for copy-editing the heck out of this beast, and providing me with so many helpful notes about how to make it better. I needed all of them. 
> 
> To MJ, Pants and everyone else I am forgetting -- thank you! I appreciate you! I would now like to nap for the next three years.
> 
> Fourthly, and possibly most importantly: I am a tried and true Bostonian, so each of the locations/landmarks mentioned are as real and anchored in truth as I could make them! The converse is that, fifth: I know next to nothing about spies. I know less than nothing about spies, so everything not about locations or feelings mentioned in this story is a complete and total lie. The spy organization mentioned herein does not really exist, and in fact, is probably too ridiculously anachronistic to do so. Whoops.
> 
> Sixth: I am usually pretty terrible at titles, but "Keep the Car Running" is a track by the Arcade Fire, and it was actually listening to that song that inspired the story in the first place. I do love a perfect bit of symmetry.

There’s a series of three quick beeps, and then the door gives under Jeff’s hands, just like he’d been hoping it would. The only noise coming from Comms is static, but it’ll clear up eventually. It always does.

He nods at security guard standing alert at the entrance to Calderwood Hall, nabs a glass of champagne from the flutes grouped on the bar and slips inside. He and Tyler spent hours going over building schematics. This room has a max capacity of 167 guests. By his count, Jeff sees almost exactly that number. It’s packed.

It’s shouldn't be too long now before the introductions and the speeches, the crowd humming with anticipation. It’s an important event, an important merger, if everything goes right, but too many speeches make an evening drag. Jeff knows from personal experience.

The music stops slowly, petering out as the melody concludes, and Jeff hums along quietly, looking for his mark. They hadn’t had perfect intel to go in on, just some vague specifics and a particular brand of shoes, but Jeff’s not worried. He always manages to land on his feet.

“Excuse me,” a man calls from the semi-raised podium in the front of the room.

Jeff recognizes him as Kurt Foreman, Vice President of Finance for Clean Energy Group, and leans back as, en masse, nearly two hundred people turn forward. 

“I’d like to take a moment to introduce everyone involved with this momentous endeavor.” Jeff watches Foreman fumble with his notes, staying mostly hidden from view behind one of the sporadically placed potted lemon trees. “It’s an honor to be involved with such a fine and upstanding group of individuals.” 

In his ear, Tyler mutters, “Is he fucking kidding with this?” 

Comms are back. Awesome.

Jeff clears his throat for effect, wipes his mouth with the corner of his wrist, and mumbles, “Apparently not,” with a smile. 

Tyler can’t see him; there’s no direct security feed in this alcove, but he still says, “Drop the smile. We’re not in the clear yet.”

“We feel,” Foreman continues, and Jeff takes it as an opportunity to look around the space again, ignoring the feelings of CEG in favor of learning the room.

“Gotcha,” he whispers, eyes landing on a horse-faced younger guy in a form fitting suit, standing with his back to the far wall. 

His hands are balled into fists, bulging out the material of his pockets, and his foot taps an irregular rhythm against the ornately decorated marble floor. 

“In three,” Jeff says, barely making a sound. “Two...” The _one_ is silent, and he makes his way across the room similarly, excusing himself as he sidesteps and twines behind people, blending in with the crowd and going successfully unnoticed.

“Mark,” Tyler says on his end, the facial recognition software working its magic as Jeff steps out of the throng and into a more brightly lit area of the Hall.

Jeff doesn’t waste time. 

“Liz?” he asks, reaching out to grip the wrist of a young woman in sage green, widening his eyes and pitching his voice lower than normal to avoid detection. The words come out slow, his accent dulled. “Liz! Shit, how long has it been? How's it going?” 

He ignores Foreman in favor of angling himself closer to her.

“Um,” the girl says, clearly surprised, blinking at him rapidly. Jeff shakes his head, smiling, biting just slightly at the corner of his lip. He peers down at her, confused, brows creasing, and in less than three seconds, she’s smiling up at him. “I’m sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong person.”

He drops her wrist, quickly loosening the clasp of her diamond bracelet. “Sorry,” he apologizes, earnest. “I could’ve sworn—” he flicks his tongue out over his lips and watches as she notices. “But, no, of course. I can see clearly now. I’m so sorry to have bothered you, miss.”

The mark is still in the corner, still tapping his foot against the floor like he’s writing out code.

“I promise it wasn’t on purpose,” he adds, squeezing her wrist again. The bracelet is lightweight, loosened enough to fall if she shifts, if she reaches forward to grab his attention again.

She does, and Jeff watches as more than a million dollars’ worth of diamonds slither down from her wrist to the floor. He takes a step closer, sliding it back with his foot and blocking her eyeline. 

“I mean,” she says. “It’s okay. It could happen to anyone, right?”

For a second, Jeff thinks about stepping away, pointing down to the floor and mentioning that the clasp on her bracelet must be faulty, that maybe she should get insurance on it or something, if she doesn’t have it already. He thinks better of it, though; she’s either associated with CEG or NewMutual, and they’re both so rotten, he can’t tell which one stinks worse.

Low in his ear, Tyler says, “Now.” 

Jeff angles himself forward with one foot, still grinning. Behind him, someone moves, and Jeff allows himself to be pitched forward, on his knees, pocketing the bracelet and back on his feet within ten seconds. The girl looks surprised, concerned, but Jeff just smiles at her. Over Comms, Tyler doesn’t comment on it. If he listens hard enough, Jeff can hear him typing furiously.

“Shit, I’m so embarrassed,” Jeff says, and feels himself start to blush. “Sorry. I can’t imagine what you must be thinking right now.”

“Marcia Harding,” Tyler says over Comms, reading his mind as usual. “29. Started at CEG as a collegiate summer intern and worked her way up.”

“I think you’re clumsy,” Marcia says, patting his arm, “but that’s not your fault. I've been taking ballet classes since I was a toddler and I still can’t walk in a straight line."

Jeff smiles, notes where the mark is, still a few feet behind them and obviously only half-listening to the speeches. Foreman’s still droning on, but it sounds like he’s winding down. It’s go time, Jeff thinks, and then Tyler repeats the sentiment.

“Ballet definitely wouldn't be for me,” he says conversationally, although he’s definitely done some extensive routines in his day. "Two left feet."

It doesn’t pay to be a childhood figure skating star if you don’t know how to move.

On Comms, Tyler asks, “You ready?” 

Jeff doesn’t have much of a choice, can’t answer regardless, but he nods once, making sure the security camera to his left catches the movement.

“Do you maybe—” Marcia says, but Jeff’s only listening with half an ear.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks, pasting on another smile. “It’s getting kind of hot in here.” 

The mark is starting to move, shifting up on the balls of his feet like he needs to stretch to see, even though he’s taller than half the crowd already. 

“That would be great,” Marcia grins at him again and Jeff nearly winces when she reaches to rub absently at her wrist.

Ten seconds later, the fire alarm goes off.

It’s a loud, insistent noise, and there are so many people clogged together that the noisy panic starts at a rumble and doesn’t stop. Jeff’s two bodies away from the mark and gaining on him when the indoor sprinklers go off. It’s less than a handful of steps and Jeff closes his hand around the mark’s arm, tugging him to a stop amidst the sea of people trying to escape the suddenly freezing room.

“Uh,” the guy says, and Tyler’s still laughing, but Jeff lets his own smile drop from his face. “What’s going on?”

He can hear Tyler typing again, even faster than before, and he says, “Taylor Hall,” quickly enough for Jeff to repeat it, when the silence is just starting to get too lengthy.

Taylor straightens up, trying to dislodge Jeff’s fingers. 

“No,” he says, starting to flush, even as they continue to get pelted with the overhead cascade of water. “You got the wrong guy.” 

“You sure?” Jeff asks. “That’s a pity.” He turns, making like he’s going to leave, even though in a sea of hundreds, there aren’t many places for him to go.

“What, uh,” Hall asks behind him, his breaths coming out labored. The crowd is starting to shift forward, still moving sluggishly. “What do you want with him?”

“With you or with him?” Jeff asks. Hall shrugs and it’s so easy. If Jeff’s custom made Armani weren’t drenched, he’d think it were _too_ easy. “I heard I should be looking out for the great Taylor Hall, but if you’re not him, you’re kinda useless to me.”

Hall clears his throat, and he says, “I might know a guy.”

Jeff turns, clasping Hall’s shoulder and dropping the bracelet into his coat pocket. “I don’t need a guy,” he says pointedly. “I need _that_ guy.”

He slips away, fading through the crowd, even as Hall starts to make noise, calling attention to himself. Jeff makes it out quickly, but not as quick as he’d like, considering his teeth are chattering by the time he finds a window that he can fit through easily.

An alarm will probably go, but there’s so much going on that he doubts Security will notice right away. It’s a long way down, but Jeff’s covered; unwinds the thick corded rope from behind his back and ties one end to the balustrade and the other around his waist, hooked to the carabiner he has attached to his belt-loops.

“You out?” Tyler asks, but he’s cutting in and out badly. The signal out here must be interfering with the Comms link again.

He doesn’t respond when Jeff says, “Going ...now.”

Rappelling down the back of a museum is weird, but it isn’t even the weirdest thing he’s done this week. It’s almost fun, the heat in the air up here way less oppressive than it is down on the ground.

He runs out of rope sooner than expected. There’s about a twelve foot drop between him and the grass of the courtyard, and when he tries Comms again, it’s still staticky in his ear.

It’s the kind of landing makes everything hurt; a sharp, stabbing pain enveloping his right ankle and sparks of discomfort twining up and down his back. Jeff ignores it all because he has to, sticking to the shadows and running fast. He only skids to a halt when he gets to the front of the property. 

The air is thick with heat and oncoming rain, and Jeff’s soaked again, if he’d even managed to get dry after the sprinklers in the first place.

There are cops all around, and no less than five fire engines. Jeff takes a deep breath, steels himself, and stumbles toward the officer closest to him, clutching an arm around his stomach and gasping hard. 

“Sir?” the officer asks, voice clipped, but concerned. Jeff holds up five fingers behind his back.

“My wife,” he gasps, and then describes Marcia Harding to a T. “I think this was a planned heist.” He fleshes out the rest of the story with greater detail, still breathing heavily. Comms are still out from what he can tell, but he hopes Tyler’s getting this. It’s a gold-fucking-medal-winner.

The officer narrows his eyes at Jeff, but he shifts, offering him shoulder support anyway. 

In his ear, Tyler says, “What is it about your face, Skinny? I try that and I get arrested.” 

Jeff snorts, but covers it with a cough, leaning heavily against the cop. 

“A heist. All this trouble... just for a bracelet, sir?”

Another ambulance makes its way noisily down the street. There’s a security feed on the stop lights across the street, and Jeff holds up six fingers now, as casually as he can, just in case Tyler can’t make everything out from his vantage point.

“Just before the alarm went off.” Jeff allows a blanket to be dropped over his shoulders. “One second she was wearing her bracelet and the next, it was gone.”

The cop looks at him critically, bushy eyebrows raised and pushing toward his hairline. 

“It doesn’t track for me.” His accent is thick, regional, and he’s about five seconds away from walking away now that he’s gotten Jeff what passes for medical attention.

“It was the first thing I bought her after I made the first million,” Jeff improvises, trying to sound as reverent as possible. “Who wouldn’t want to try and take that?”

On Comms, Tyler makes a high-pitched noise, like he’s laughing but trying not to. It takes more effort than Jeff’s really comfortable with to keep himself from laughing too.

“How much are we talking here?” the cop asks, clearly incredulous.

“Hall’s in the crowd,” Tyler says, typing fast all over again. “Moving toward the south exit. Do it now, Skinny.”

Jeff lists forward, swaying out from where he’d been sitting and clutches the cop’s arm. 

“There he is,” he breathes. “That’s the guy who took my wife’s bracelet.” 

Hall’s soaked too, that much is obvious from the way he’s walking, the cuffs of his suit hanging limply over his hands. He looks defeated, and Jeff would feel bad, maybe, if they were playing on the same team.

“Sir,” the cop says, not sounding entirely convinced. 

Jeff carefully looks at the ground to roll his eyes and starts to plead when he looks up again. 

“Please, just go check his pockets. If it’s not there—” he allows himself a toneless laugh. “Well, if it’s not there, I don’t know what I’ll do.” 

He seems dejected enough, definitely. The cop doesn’t look like he really believes him, but he turns around and heads into the crowd anyway, like he’s doing Jeff a favor and not potentially catching a jewel thief.

“I don’t know how you pull that shit off,” Tyler says over Comms. “You ready to move?”

Jeff shrugs. It’s not like he really has a choice.

;;

They’re set to meet up at a diner a few miles away from the reception. Jeff’s not wild about running in suits, but needs must, sometimes.

Tyler’s already there when Jeff gets in. He spends the requisite time scanning over the menu display in the front and smiling at the wait staff before heading into the men’s bathroom and changing into the clothes Tyler’s left packaged up under the hidden pipe by the sinks. 

The pants feel good, loose compared to the tight dampness of his suit. It was a beautiful piece. Jeff’s sorry to have to leave it.

He looks like a teenager in his gray sweats and ball cap. The Chuck Taylors that round it out seal the deal. He looks fifteen; a tall fifteen, but still a young one. 

He tests the theory out by asking a passing waitress for a pot of coffee and she snorts before saying, “Maybe stick with milk, huh? You kids need more calcium in your bones.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Jeff responds, letting his voice crack. 

In his booth across the room, Tyler starts to snicker. Jeff flips him off as discreetly as he can, smiles again when she tells him he looks just like her grandson.

“Aw,” Tyler coos when Jeff sits down, reaching across the tabletop like he’s going to pinch his fingers against Jeff’s cheek. He doesn’t. “It is kinda past your bedtime, huh?”

“Fuck you,” he says, and aims a perfectly timed kick to Tyler’s shins. 

“Um, _ow_ ,” Tyler grunts, but he’s still grinning, adrenaline drunk and drumming his fingers on the tabletop hard enough that it seems he’s playing a Bach concerto on invisible keys.

Jeff drinks his coffee black. He pours himself a cup from the lukewarm pot Tyler’s saved him and leans back against the cracked leather of the booth, letting the mug warm his still-freezing fingers. 

“So,” he says, letting the seconds of silence stretch out until they’re both just looking at each other.

Tyler snaps out of it first. 

“Debriefing,” he says, sliding over his work iPhone. 

The security feed from the museum is still coming through strong. Jeff doesn’t have audio, but he can see Taylor Hall being wrestled into the back of a police car, which is pretty much all he needs for the moment.

“We should order breakfast.” 

Jeff yawns. Now that he’s sitting, relaxing, the pain from his ankle is almost bad enough to be distracting. He should mention it, but he really doesn’t want to stop by Medical on his way home if he can avoid it.

“It’s midnight,” Tyler says in his grown up, handler way, but he ruins it a minute later when he can’t control his face. “If you eat now, you’ll have to go running, and then stay up for at least another three hours.”

Jeff rolls his eyes and Tyler only grins harder. He’s such an asshole. “I already went running,” he reasons. “I ran all the way here.”

“You probably shouldn’t be putting all that pressure on your ankle anyway,” Tyler says mildly, but he shoves the menu across the table, so that’s something at least.

They both end up with egg white omelets, and an orange juice for Jeff, and Tyler tells him everything he did wrong while he chews on a piece of toast that Jeff can’t have while drinking from the bottomless pot of coffee Jeff can’t share. The arrangement sucks.

“I’m just saying,” Tyler’s mouth is full, but he’s talking anyway. “You spent way too long chatting up Harding. You should’ve bumped into her, planted the bracelet on Hall and been outta there before the sprinklers even went off.” 

Jeff sips his juice. “We didn’t even know who Hall was for sure before I talked to her. I was covering all my bases.”

Tyler shrugs, but he’s smiling again. “You were looking down the front of the pretty girl’s dress.”

There’s no real way Jeff can argue, not without turning this conversation into something longer than they have time for.

“She was cute enough, though, right?” he says, grinning, and then they're squabbling over the bill. “I was the one actually working,” Jeff argues, but Tyler’s digging his heels in, the cheap bastard, and Jeff pulls his credit card out only because it’ll put a stop to all the pouting.

“Who are you tonight?” Tyler asks, and Jeff slides him tonight’s card of choice, an Amex belonging to none other than Kurt Foreman himself. “How’d you get close enough to nab this off him?” He doesn’t look impressed, exactly, but it’s a free meal. He’s smarter than to complain.

“Coat check,” Jeff says, but Tyler’s frowning.

“You shouldn’t have told that cop she was your wife,” he repeats, his mouth pulling down. “That’s a paper trail.”

“Like he’s going to remember me.”

Tyler grips his mug tightly, but he looks calm. “He might.”

“He won’t.”

“A visually shaken, soaked, crazy man-child that whined about all his millions and a missing diamond bracelet like he was in a game of Clue? Please. Somebody so baby-faced talking that much shit is memorable.”

“Did you miss the part where Hall got arrested? Mission complete.”

“Whatever,” Tyler mutters, and then waves over their ancient waitress with a smile and hands over Foreman’s credit card and the bill. They leave a huge tip and head in separate directions when they get outside.

It’s raining, but Jeff’s sweatshirt comes with a hood, and he tugs it over his head as he starts the slow jog home, mindful of the pain in his ankle and the potential to make it worse if he slips. 

His apartment is in a decent building in an okay part of town; good enough that his doorman doesn’t even flinch when he takes in Jeff’s disheveled appearance.

He just smiles, holding the heavy glass door open and says, “Mr. Schneider,” as politely as usual.

“Hey Jimmy,” Jeff says, and then keeps up the jog until he’s in the elevator leading up to his floor. 

His ankle is throbbing. He should probably just take a handful of painkillers and get some sleep, but he’s never been that good with sitting still. Jeff boots up his laptop while he gets the shower going and idles at the foot of his bed awkwardly, waiting impatiently for both.

Once online, he logs onto the private BPD website Tyler’s sent him the credentials for and taps his fingers impatiently on the bedspread as he waits for the page to load. 

It can’t take more than ten seconds to scan all the details, but Jeff checks it over three more times before dropping back onto his haunches and cursing.

“Shit,” he says, by way of hello, when Tyler answers the call.

“Don’t tell me.”

“Neither Taylor Hall nor anyone fitting his description were brought into any precincts in town for questioning,” Jeff blurts. He flops down onto the floor so that he’s laying flat against the hardwood, staring up at the ceiling and counting the cracks. “But we watched him getting arrested.”

“Wrong,” Tyler mutters, and Jeff can hear him typing again. “We saw him getting stuffed into a cop car.”

“Which is as good as—”

“Which is nothing,” Tyler beats him to the conclusion, sighing heavily. “We didn’t see the cop who put him away. It could’ve been his handler. It could’ve been somebody they paid off.”

Jeff feels his pulse quicken. “But they didn’t even know we were going to be there,” he points out. “We had the intel. We had the sources.”

“Guess not,” Tyler says, and then, totally uncharacteristically, “Get some sleep, Skinny. We got an early day tomorrow.”

“Fuck you,” Jeff says, but there’s no heat in it. “What about you?”

“I’m going too.” He’s obviously lying, but Jeff doesn’t bother calling him on it. “You should probably consider moving again, though,” he adds, like he always does, when Jeff’s lived in one place too long.

“I like this apartment,” Jeff reasons, even though he knows Tyler’s right.

“You like all your apartments. That doesn’t actually mean that they’re safe.” 

Jeff could respond with something whiny, or he could complain some more, but Tyler’s not really listening.

“I’ll look into something in the morning, yeah?”

Tyler yawns, but they both know he won’t be sleeping any time soon. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Hey, call me when you go on your search. I’ll start on the background checks.”

“You got it.” Jeff’s still lying prone on the floor, listening to the water thunder against the marble in the bathroom. He should get up and shower. He should ice his ankle. He should at least get up before he falls asleep right there.

;;

Being in international affairs for this long has taught him a lot of useful tips and tricks, but the most important, always, is cataloguing his surroundings and knowing the room. When Jeff wakes up, he’s still at home; the cracks on the ceiling and floor to his back are familiar, but the almost imperceptible noise from the entrance hall isn’t.

He senses the footsteps before he hears them, and manages to roll himself under the bed before whoever it is creeps into his bedroom.

There are two people, from what he can see, in a pair of dress shoes, neat and perfect, and a scuffed pair of flip-flops that have obviously seen better days. The door to his closet creaks open and Jeff almost hopes it’s robbers, but they’re too quiet, too professional.

“You think he’s in the shower?” Flip-flops asks. Jeff stares up at the slats of his bed and knows for sure it’s Taylor Hall. He’d know that voice anywhere, even hushed.

Black Dress Shoes stays put, like he’s testing the air. Jeff imagines him shrugging, even though he can’t tell one way or the other. 

“Why else would he have the water going?” he asks, voice pitched low, but not low enough for Jeff to miss the tight clip of a slight Canadian accent. “Go and check.”

“Fuck you,” Hall says, but Jeff hears him clomp away, the bathroom door opening and closing behind him.

Jeff tries not to breathe. He wonders, idly, if Jimmy the doorman is dead, if he’ll actually have to use his gun to get out of his apartment. He wonders if they followed him, saw and IDed Tyler. He’ll be okay, if there’s only one set of remains to identify.

“Not in the shower,” Hall says, pushing back out of the bathroom. He takes a step closer to the bed, shoes making heavy thudding noises against the wood. “All his shit is still here,” he adds, and Jeff imagines him touching the air above Jeff’s things, not wanting to disturb. It’s a smart move. Any spy worth his salt can instinctively tell when his stuff’s been tampered with.

“He might’ve stepped out for cigarettes,” Black Dress Shoes says. Jeff hears paper rustling. “The deli at the corner sells his preferred brand, but they close at 11:30 on weeknights. Then there’s the Walgreens down the street, but he only goes there when he’s desperate because they charge five cents extra.”

Hall hums, and Jeff tries to breathe again, feeling panic welling in his chest. He counts down from ten, fifteen, and then tries a hundred.Tyler always makes him count numbers first to calm down, but Jeff’s pretty sure this is going to be a backwards-alphabet reciting evening, if he even lives that long.

“So he’s cheap, too?” Hall asks. He steps so close to the bed that the toes of his shoes are barely an inch from Jeff’s shoulder.

Black Dress Shoes doesn’t respond for a while, probably still casing the room. 

“He likes changing up his routine,” he says. “What the fuck are you doing over there, Hallsy?” 

“Uh, bugs?” 

“Could you be more obvious about it? He comes back from wherever he is, and that’s the first place he’ll look.” 

Black Dress Shoes comes around the side of the bed, stepping close enough to Hall that their feet nearly touch.

He mumbles something Jeff misses, but that’s fine, that’s okay. If they’re only planting bugs, that means no one has to be dead yet. 

“Explain to me again why we didn’t just grab him when he was at that diner?” he asks. 

Jeff closes his eyes. They’re so close, they must hear how hard his heart is beating. 

“I mean, he was right there, he was limping, we could’ve nabbed him on his way home and not had to break in here.”

Black Dress Shoes lets out an exasperated sigh. He’s definitely Hall’s handler. Tyler makes that noise around him all the time. 

“Listen,” he says, and for a crazy, panicked second, Jeff thinks they’re listening to him. “I just want to know what Skinner and his team want with us.” Hall mumbles again, but apparently this time it’s too low for Black Dress Shoes to hear too, because he makes another annoyed noise and says, “What?”

Jeff imagines it’s hard not to be annoyed at Hall all the time.

He clears his throat and says, “With me, you mean. Skinner doesn’t even know you exist, Ebby.”

 _Now I do_ , Jeff thinks, starting on the alphabet as they move quickly around the room, dropping little listening devices in all the secret corners, places Jeff wouldn’t even think to look if he hadn’t been properly trained to.

It only takes a couple of minutes for them to outfit the whole room with bugs. Jeff breathes easier once they’re in the hallway again.

“You want me to do the bed?” Hall asks, coming back to stand in the mouth of the doorway. Jeff hasn’t relaxed, exactly, but the nerves pool back in again, his throat getting tight so quickly he’s afraid he’ll choke.

From the hallway, Ebby says, “We don’t care if he’s getting laid, Hallsy,” and that’s sort of the end of that. 

They’re still in Jeff’s apartment for longer than he’d like, sticking around to make sure every base is covered, but they do leave eventually.

Jeff takes his time moving out from under the bed, waiting fifteen, maybe twenty minutes until after they’ve gone. His legs have cramped up, ankle hurting something fierce, but he doesn’t let that stop him, moving as quietly as he can on his hands and knees until he’s at the front door. 

This’ll be the tricky part, he knows, because there are likely to be more bugs in the den than anywhere else. It’s a risk he’ll have to take.

He sends a text to Jilly that says, _Answering machine at apt acting up. Call and leave msg, pls?_ and has never been more grateful for her cell dependency than in this moment. 

Less than two minutes later, the phone rings shrilly, once, twice, three times, and in the seconds after it goes through to voicemail, Jeff hoists himself up and opens the front door as quietly as he can, just in time to hear her say, “Jiiiiiiiiiiiiffy, Jiffy, where are you? Answer the phone, boy!” 

She’s only slurring a little and she’s loud enough that he can hear it even when he’s outside the apartment, leaning heavily against the door.

She texts back. _Good?_ And Jeff sends _y_ without any other explanation. It’s 3am. He doesn’t really need to know why she’s up.

He paces in front of the door until he realizes there are security cameras in the hall, and ends up taking the stairs down to the lobby at double time, relieved when he sees Jimmy still standing guard in the by the front entrance, even though Jimmy’s probably a mole for Hall and whoever the fuck Ebby is.

“Mr. Schneider,” he says, and if he registers surprise at all, he hides it well. “Heading back out again?”

Jeff smiles, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his sweats. He’s just in a thin t-shirt and flip flops he nabbed by his front door, and it’s still raining, but checking on Tyler is more important than being dry. 

“I, uh, couldn’t sleep,” he says, hedging. “My little sister called me freaking out about something and I figured, you know. Beating up her boyfriend has gotta be more fun than beating up a punching bag.”

“Will you be requiring an umbrella, sir? It looks pretty wet out there.”

Normally, Jeff would take it, but if Jimmy’s a plant, if it has a tracker on it, if— 

“You know what? I’m okay. She’s in one of the new dorms by Suffolk. Not too far away at all.”

“Very good, sir,” Jimmy says, and Jeff doesn’t turn back to look at him as he takes off, running as fast as he can on the slick pavement.

He’s about three blocks from from Tyler’s place when he ducks under an awning and pushes speed dial one on his phone. 

It takes about six rings, but Tyler answers with a gruff, “What?” and, “Skinner?” Jeff can hear him moving around, waking up. “Did you pocket dial me again, man? What did we say about locking your phone?”

“Um,” Jeff blurts, “Taylor Hall and his handler were just in my apartment.” 

“How are you—” Tyler says. “You okay? How do you know?”

Jeff considers lying. “I was there,” he says. “I, um. I sort of fell asleep, after we talked—”

“Like you were supposed to.”

Jeff clears his throat, mostly to be heard. “But sort of,” he says, “sort of on the floor?”

“You fell asleep on the floor.” Tyler doesn’t sound half as surprised as Jeff expected him to. “Were you watching a movie or something?”

“Nope,” Jeff mutters, wiping at his face again. “I was tired, alright?”

Tyler doesn’t say anything for long enough that Jeff pulls his phone away from his ear to check that he still has service. Sometimes AT&T fucks him over when it rains.

“Segs,” Jeff says. It feels like he’s asking more than he has the proper words for.

“Are you on your way?” Tyler asks. 

Jeff swallows hard, gearing himself up for the run, but he says, “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

;; 

Tyler lives in Back Bay, and even though it’s late, there are still people hanging out, more cars on the street than Jeff is used to seeing at this hour. There’s no doorman, but you can’t even get in the building without either a passkey or by calling up. Jeff leans against the buzzer for ‘TS - 19’ and even though the wait time can’t be that long, it feels like it takes much longer than necessary for Tyler to say, “Yeah?” into the intercom. 

“It’s me,” Jeff says. “‘m downstairs.”

Tyler laughs but says, “What happened to ‘the eagle flies at night’, bro?”

“It flew away. Come on, let me up.” 

The door buzzes twice, and then Jeff’s able to push inside. Tyler’s on the eighth floor, and normally Jeff wouldn’t, but he takes the elevator up instead of the stairs, legs jittering with leftover nerves.

Jeff barely has time to knock before the door creaks open, and there Tyler is, looking exactly the same, no extra cuts or bruises at all.

“Hey,” Jeff breathes, grabbing Tyler and hugging him, hauling him closer than they usually let themselves get. They don’t touch often, if they can help it. Jeff doesn’t touch Tyler, anyway. He’s too old to still be hung up on drunken teenage experiments, but Tyler’s a guy that’s difficult to forget.

“Hey,” he says, eventually, his voice still unbearably kind. “Hey, let go, Skinny. You’re soaked.”

Jeff feels his face go hot, but he does let go, pushing Tyler aside to get further into the apartment. 

“I always wonder why you’re not more like Q,” he says after a second, which is always part of the standard speech when he visits, which isn’t all that frequently. On their salary, he can afford to move as many times as he needs to, but Tyler handles other agents, needs to use this as a home base for them, too.

“What, you mean like, gadgets?” Tyler asks, following close behind him and fiddling with something on the hotplate. He’s making cocoa. “I’ve got mad gadgets, man. You’re just not advanced enough to deserve ‘em.”

They settle on the couch, and Tyler flicks the TV on, muting it on golf highlights they watch in silent unison. There are about a million things to say and questions to ask, but Jeff doesn’t have the words for them.

“I guess I can’t move now, huh?” he asks eventually. They should probably talk about it before he has to go home again.

“Not if you don’t want Hall and his handler to come after you again,” Tyler agrees. “Do you have any idea how they got into your place?”

Jeff shrugs. “Not really. I didn’t even know they knew who I was.”

It takes a while for him to speak, but eventually Tyler grunts, “They shouldn’t.” 

His voice rough in a way that would make Jeff nervous if they didn’t know each other so well.

“I probably pissed Hall off, getting him roughed up by that cop,” Jeff says, annoyed all over again.

“You mean you probably annoyed his handler, and that dude used his considerable talents to dig up all the dirt he could find on you.” Tyler makes a face. “You should probably call your folks and the kids. Tell them something weird happened and they should be on high-alert, and meanwhile, I’ll—” He stops to take a breath and then looks at Jeff with surprise. “What?” he asks, wiping at his face. “What are you looking at me like that for?”

“Just a general ‘be on the lookout’?” Jeff asks, feeling this sort of ridiculous hysteria bubbling up inside him. “Don’t worry, Mom and Dad, there’s nothing really wrong with me, but I can tell you with confidence that someone might be coming after you because I was an asshole.” He makes a face that Tyler immediately mimics back to him. “Yeah, that’ll go over really well.”

He has an alias. They both do. Jeff Schneider is a grad student at Tufts. He has a job and every-other-weekend rights of a dog he shares with an ex-girlfriend. He’s a little geeky, a little accident-prone, but otherwise fairly bland. Fondly regarded by classmates and professors alike, but rarely remembered afterward. His parents don’t know about it. He doesn’t even know where he’d start. 

Tyler has an alias too, but his is even more layered than Jeff’s is. 

“I have no fucking clue idea how they found me,” Jeff whines, exhaling deeply and dropping his head back against the arm of the couch. For all its sparseness, the apartment is cool; all glass and metal furnishings and huge glass windows on the far side, looking out across the city. 

“I don’t know either,” Segs says, and he sounds angry all over again. Twice in one night has got to be some kind of record. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Jeff says, reaching across the space between them to touch his fingers to Tyler’s arm. It lasts a second, maybe less, but even when he drops his hand away, he can still feel the tingle in his fingers. The unexpected spark. 

“Fucking right we will,” Segs agrees, but he chases the grunt with a smile, and it almost looks convincing.

Jeff gets up eventually, in an effort to keep from falling asleep right there. He winces when Tyler says, “Did you stop by Medical on your way home?” 

When Jeff turns back to face him again, he’s got his handler face on, typing in the notepad app on his iPad. 

“So that’s a ...no?” Tyler frowns, correctly interpreting the silence. “Skinny, you gotta take better care of yourself, man.”

“It’s fine,” Jeff says, and purposefully puts more pressure on his right side, just to prove he can. 

“Yeah, you look real fine.” 

Jeff starts to laugh without consciously meaning to, and Tyler does too, the two of them losing their shit over nothing in the small hours of the morning; bruised, battered, exhausted beyond belief.

“You can’t resist me,” Jeff says, voice suddenly scratchy with false-bravado. Tyler’s focusing on his iPad again, muttering under his breath.

He hums quietly and says, “Yeah, that’s it,” and then, “Do you need to crash here? I can give you extra pillows or whatever, if you need ‘em.”

Jeff should probably say no. The less time they spend together during off-hours, the better, but his leg hurts, and the concept of running back to his place in a middle-of-the-night summer rainstorm is less than appealing. 

“Yeah,” he responds eventually, when Tyler’s just staring at him over the rim of his iPad and Jeff’s eyes are nearly crossing, trying to stare back. “That would be great, actually.”

Tyler nods once, and then stretches, getting up to his feet. 

“You know where everything is, still, right? Nothing’s, ah,” he pauses, and Jeff can’t see his blush in the low light, but he can imagine the rosiness ghosting across the tops of his cheeks. “Nothing’s really changed since the last time you stayed over.”

“Yeah, okay,” Jeff says, and then, because his parents raised him right, he adds, “Um, thank you. Obviously.”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Tyler snickers, still smiling as he heads down the hall to his bedroom. “You’re welcome to watch TV or whatever,” he calls. “Just nothing too violent, eh? My neighbor’s kid has pretty bad insomnia and she gets paranoid if I’m listening to anything with too many creepy-crawlies on loud.”

“So _Arachnophobia_ ’s out, then, huh?”

There’s a muffled noise that Jeff takes as an answer even if he doesn’t understand it, and he moves over to the couch, propping his injured foot on the leather cushions and shifting until he’s comfortable. His clothes are still unpleasantly damp, but not so unpleasantly that he’s willing to move yet.

“Have you even ever seen _Arachnophobia_?” Tyler asks, padding back into the den in low-slung black sweatpants and nothing else.

It takes Jeff a second to answer, but it’s definitely because he’s been caught off guard and already exhausted. Right.

He blinks a few times, Tyler looking at him expectantly before he coughs out, “Uh, yes. Of course. Sisters, remember?”

“I thought it was just The Jonas Brothers they made you listen to.” Tyler laughs, yawning and stretching out on the other end of the sectional. 

He looks comfortable and more well-rested than before, like a regular guy in from a busy night. Jeff might even believe it, if it weren’t for the heavy bags under his eyes and the way it looks like Tyler hasn’t actually slept in days. 

He can’t imagine he looks much better, so he laughs to cover and says, “No, man, that was just Jilly, when she was a kid. She’s into, like, classic Kanye now.” Tyler raises his brows and Jeff waits until he’s sure he can pull the reference off with a straight face, before he says, “Always warning me she’s about to testify.”

He can’t hold it, especially when Tyler meets his eyes steadily and adds, “Come up in the spot lookin’ extra fly?” 

Jeff ducks his head, staring at his knees, but he’s laughing too hard to really keep the thread up, and Tyler pitches himself forward, landing with his head somewhere around Jeff’s feet. 

“I win,” he says, voice mostly muffled by the couch.

“I just wasn’t ready,” Jeff reasons, but Tyler’s laughing too hard to really listen. 

They settle on infomercials when there’s nothing interesting enough to pay attention to, and Jeff dozes, mostly able to ignore the pain in his ankle when Tyler’s pressed so close. He’s emanating heat, and now that he’s so warm, it hurts a little less.

;;

Jeff wakes up to mid-afternoon sunlight streaming in through the bay windows and Tyler’s face mashed and drooling pillowed against his thigh. This isn’t the most compromising position they’ve ever found themselves in, but it’s definitely the first in a while. He spends a couple minutes trying to extricate himself without making too much trouble and finally decides against moving at all. No need to embarrass them both, if he can avoid it.

On the coffee table his phone buzzes shrilly, the same obnoxious, high-pitched text ringtone he’s had since he got the stupid thing, and within a minute, Tyler’s awake, pushing himself up with his palms bracketing either of Jeff’s thighs and a pink blush flooding his skin. He looks good, well-rested and less worried. 

Jeff’s phone buzzes again, and the noise breaks them of their inadvertent staring match. 

“You should probably get that,” Tyler mumbles. He gets himself to his feet, tosses the phone over and heads back down the hall again. “I’m taking a shower, then we'll get breakfast, alright?”

“Sure,” Jeff says, and busies himself with checking over his messages. There are at least five from Jilly, all varying in drunken coherence before the most recent one just says _maaaaaaaaaaaybe call home? m & d on warpath. me n b are staying out of it._

There’s a small balcony off the kitchen that Tyler doesn’t use as often now that he’s given up smoking, so Jeff heads out there to call his parents, slumping down on the bench and leaning his head back against the wall. The mid-afternoon sun is cheery, if sweltering, and his mother answers on the first ring, like she was expecting him.

“Jeffrey,” she says, voice thin and ice cold in a way she hasn’t sounded around him since he broke his leg in grade eight, practicing jumps for too long and not paying enough attention to sticking the landings. She’d been mad at him for months, even though the constant pain was enough to teach him a lesson about skate-safety.

Jeff clears his throat and mumbles, “Hey Mom,” as politely as he can. 

It’s one of those perfect Boston afternoons, clear blue skies for miles around and nothing but the sounds of the city below. He’s always liked this city, and the hustle and bustle of a summer work day is always fun to watch, even from this high up.

“Jeffrey,” she repeats, and he can imagine her standing in their kitchen at home, hair swept back and away from her face; chewing on her nails and probably ruining a manicure to keep from losing her temper. “Can you please explain to me why we had to learn from your _sister_ —” 

Jeff hears a rushing in his ears so loud it might as well be the ocean. He misses the end of her sentence. He clears his throat to keep his voice from cracking and says, “Excuse me, what?”

Her voice softens when she repeats herself, and he comforts himself with the thought that she was probably just scared. 

“You were in an accident?” she asks, and he blinks, staring out into traffic before he remembers the bust up with his car. 

It feels like years ago, but it’s only been a couple of days. They'd been tracking an international cocaine smuggling ring through Southie. The rental getting rammed had been the least of his problems.

“Um.” He swallows, hedging for time. “I didn’t want to worry you?”

His mother snorts, but he can tell she’s starting to relax, even if it is just incrementally. 

“Are you sure living down there with that Tyler is such a good idea?” she asks, even though she’s known Tyler as long as Jeff has. 

“ _Mom_ ,” Jeff whines, even though it makes him sound about twelve.

His voice pitches up and she laughs. As long as he keeps her laughing, she’s not asking him questions that he can’t answer honestly.

“I just always want you to be safe, babe.” She sighs, and comes back to herself. It’s an older sentiment, one she’s always meant for each of her kids, but sometimes Jeff the most, considering how often he got into trouble when he was younger. “Remind me again why we can’t have you fitted for a bubble?”

Jeff tries to smile, because she can always tell when he isn’t. 

“Pretty sure it’s not legal,” he says. “You’d know about that, right? All those laws where human beings have to be allowed to breathe while in captivity?”

She laughs, and she sounds comforting, warm and welcome, and all of the things Jeff misses about home, wrapped up together. 

“I’d cut air holes in the bubble, of course,” she says, and they’re quiet again for a while.

“Of course,” he parrots, eventually, because he can hear Tyler moving around the apartment and they’ll both need to head out soon. “Mom, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you directly."

“Yes, well,” she murmurs, sounding distracted. “There are a lot of things I assume you don’t tell me.” She exhales loudly, then adds, “Just. Just the next time there’s extreme bodily harm, could you let your old Ma know? So I can move up my standing appointment with the hairdresser, you know. All those white hairs you're causing me."

Jeff sucks in a tight breath, but says, “I promise. The next time I’m missing a limb, you’ll be my first phone call.”

“You think you’re cute,” she says, and that’s it. They don’t exchange formal goodbyes.

;;

When he gets back inside, Tyler has a pot of coffee on. 

“How’d that go?” He keeps his back to Jeff as he doctors his drink, keeping his voice even. Jeff slides up onto the counter, reaching across him to pour some non-dairy creamer into his own mug.

Jeff shrugs.

“Could’ve been worse,” he says. “She didn’t offer to charter a jet to come down here.” 

“But just barely?” Tyler asks, and there’s a slight smile in his voice, even though he doesn’t look as relaxed as he should. 

Jeff shrugs again, leaning in close and socking Tyler on the shoulder. They both wince a little at the contact, and Jeff flinches at the little prick of awareness he feels. His fingers are tingling.

“You know how she is,” he says, and Tyler nods, because he does.

They don’t spend that much longer together. It’s not a lazy morning. Tyler has a meeting with another agent around Haymarket, and Jeff should go home at some point, just to keep up appearances.

Jimmy’s not the one manning the door when he gets back to his building, but that’s not exactly surprising, considering how late his shift had been the night before. Jeff doesn’t recognize the new kid, but he’s rarely around much during the day. He’ll have Tyler check him out just to make sure, but the likelihood that he’s a plant is far higher than the option that he just walked in off the street looking for work in Jeff’s building.

Jeff spends some time in the gym, powering through his regular routine and wincing every single time he puts too much pressure on his bad ankle.

At around 5, he texts Tyler idly, _indian or medical?_

 _MEDICAL!!!!_ comes the immediate response, and it makes Jeff smile, even as he’s wincing to his feet and pushing out of the weight room.

 _Fine, fine_ , he sends back on his way upstairs, and Tyler shoots back pick-up instructions less than a minute later. 

Usually, Jeff would just take the T, slap a ball cap on his head and blend in with the always anonymous Boston crowds, but he’s slower with an injury, and the concept of getting picked up defenseless isn’t something he wants to contemplate. He doesn’t like to fire his gun during the day if he can help it. He doesn’t like firing his gun at all.

Jeff makes a racket as he gets into the apartment, dropping his stuff on the coffee table and the couch, but limping as quietly as possible into the bathroom to try this whole showering business again.

In the light of day, only a professional would be able to tell that anyone’s been in his room at all. Nothing is out of place, nothing has been moved. Jeff can only tell because he heard it happening.

He’s in and out in record time and gets dressed for comfort over style. His ankle hurts like hell, but it’s not like P.K. hasn’t seen him in worse shape.

There’s a car idling across the street when he gets outside. Jeff stretches, in case anyone’s watching, doing a mental check of his weapons and flicking idly through his texts, matching the numbers from Tyler’s message to the license plate. 

Gotcha.

The crosswalk up ahead is ticking down the seconds for pedestrians to get their butts moving, and Jeff makes the most of his fifteen seconds, stuffing his hands in his pockets and trying not to wince on every down beat.

He doesn’t recognize the driver when he slides in back, but that’s not all that unusual. They rotate in and out pretty frequently.

Their eyes meet in the rearview and he says, “Medical?” 

They’re off before Jeff has a chance to respond either way, but at least it’s good that the guy’s been briefed. 

Jeff’s cognizant of his surroundings, knows exactly where P.K.’s hospital is, and they’re going in the right direction, so he relaxes, sinking back onto the cracked leather and stretching out. His ankle is on fire. It might be broken, but he hopes not. He’s the worst at sitting still for too long.

The ride is long and quiet, and the car is pulling up in front of the Brigham before he even registers how much time has passed. It doesn’t feel like much at all. He makes sure he has his backpack, phone and keys, and thinks about leaving a tip once he’s on the sidewalk, but the car takes off back into traffic before he has a chance.

Inside, Gally’s manning the desk, which is a relief, because Jeff doesn’t have to explain himself. 

He takes one look, says, “For fuck’s sake, Skinner,” and presses the button on his phone that calls back to P.K.’s office. After a sec, he adds, “You can head over, but he’s only got a few minutes. What the hell happened to you?”

Jeff smiles at him, what Tyler calls his Distraction Smile, but it doesn’t work. Gally rolls his eyes and sends him back.

P.K.’s waiting by the elevator bay. He looks Jeff over critically and says, “I knew you were an idiot, Skinny, but maybe not this much of one.”

“Fuck off,” Jeff grits, but P.K.’s nice enough to let him use his shoulder for leverage. Jeff slumps against him in the elevator, holding his breath like always as they take it all the way down into the empty basement office where he assumes P.K. sees all the assets from their agency.

He helps Jeff up onto a cot and says, “Tell me everything.”

“There’s not really much to tell.” Jeff says. “Party. Ran out of escape rope. It was a little further from the ground than I thought.”

“How did you fall on it?” P.K. asks, fingers circling around the skin of Jeff’s ankle, carefully prodding at the swollen and discolored flesh.

Jeff shrugs again. He doesn’t really remember, mostly just got to his feet and started running. He says as much and P.K. glares at him.

“Why the hell didn’t you come by last night?” he asks. He’s a little colder than before, professional, and it’s fine, except for how what he’s doing to Jeff’s foot really hurts. A little flirting might go a long way. 

P.K. doesn’t do him any favors, reaching out for the ACE bandage on his workbench and twining it over Jeff’s foot. 

“It doesn’t feel broken,” he says, and Jeff takes a second to breathe his relief. “That doesn’t mean it’s not,” P.K. adds sharply, and right, right, they’re not friends right now, they’re not post-work drinking buddies. P.K. is his doctor and as his doctor, he’s pissed.

Jeff tries a smile. P.K.’s a soft touch, always has been where Jeff is concerned, and so he quirks a smile back, even as he’s shaking his head. 

“Stop with your face, man. That shit doesn’t work on me.” As he speaks, he gently presses his fingers against Jeff’s ankle, still trying to determine how badly bruised it is. 

Jeff smiles again, even though it hurts like hell. He’s been through worse. Hell, their organization has put him through worse. He can grin and bear anything.

“You’re the only one it _does_ work on,” he flirts back eventually, and P.K. rolls his eyes again, but at least he’s grinning now too. 

He spends another few minutes poking at Jeff’s foot, moving his hands higher and lower on Jeff’s leg to determine whether anything else has been injured. It’s slow going, painful going, but the light at the end of the tunnel is that there will be pain-killers soon.

“Okay,” P.K. says eventually. “You can get up.” 

He helps Jeff up, letting his legs dangle, and claps his hand on Jeff’s shoulder, face open but distant. This is Dr. Pernell at his best, serious and professional, but still kind.

“We’re gonna need to get this X-rayed. It seems like a hairline fracture, but it might be worse, and I don’t want you putting any more pressure on it until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

In his pocket, Jeff’s phone beeps. He checks it as P.K. turns away to type something into his laptop. It’s from Tyler. 

_outside b &w. if you’re not actually down at medical, I’m kicking your ass into next week._

_Like you could_ Jeff texts back, and he doesn’t mean to laugh out loud as he pictures Tyler’s face, but it happens, and P.K. only glares at him a little. 

“Segsy?” he asks, and Jeff shrugs. 

P.K. doesn’t work for anybody but himself. He’s an independent contractor for the organization who’s actually a real life doctor when he’s not patching up agents. Jeff trusts him as much as he can, almost implicitly, but he doesn’t trust anyone as much as he trusts Tyler. Keeping that guy safe is always the prime directive when there’s not another goal at hand.

“Yeah,” he says eventually, because P.K.’s looking at him expectantly. “He’s meeting me later. We’re going over details about the drop last night.”

After a few long minutes of silence, P.K. finishes typing scrawls out something on the medical pad to his left and says, “If I give you this, will you promise me that you’ll be at MGH tomorrow for the X-ray I’m scheduling for your foot?”

“I’ll do my absolute best,” Jeff says around another smile. P.K. just rolls his eyes, but hey. If he’s not receptive to Jeff’s many and obvious charms, that’s his fault.

“Can you get down on your own, or do you need help?” P.K.’s back to doctor-mode, peering at Jeff critically as he weighs his options.

He’s hopped off this cot hundreds of times, but the distance between his feet and the floor has never seemed so vast before.

“You mind helping a guy out?” He doesn’t miss the face P.K. makes, or the way his expression gets softer when he thinks Jeff’s not looking.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I minded.”

He scoots close enough that he can wrap his arm carefully around Jeff’s waist and hoist him up off the bench and down to his feet. He’s as gentle as he can be, but Jeff still winces as the pain shoots up from the ball of his foot and suffuses all his soft parts with bursts of shooting pain.

He hisses a curse between his teeth, and when P.K. smiles back this time, it looks a little pained.

“And you ran like this. How the hell are you still walking?”

Jeff shrugs. “Experience. Endurance. You know. All those special ‘e’s’ they make motivational posters about.”

Something on P.K. buzzes as they wait for the elevator.

“Agent?” Jeff asks as he shifts around, pulling the hospital-issue beeper from the pocket of his lab coat.

“Patient,” he says. “She was in labor two days ago, but she wasn’t dilated enough, so we had to send her home. Now she’s back. Hopefully, we can get the little guy out of her today.”

He sounds excited about it, genuinely pleased, and Jeff would roll his eyes at his earnestness if it weren’t so charming.

“Okay,” he says. “But isn’t it kind of gross? All the… stuff, down there?”

“It has it’s moments.” P.K. grins at him again, just as his beeper goes off. He holds it up, as if Jeff were confused about the phantom noise and adds, “Duty calls, young Skinner. I’ve gotta get up there. Promise me you’ll be at Mass General at 9 tomorrow for your appointment. I emailed Segs the details, so you’ve got no excuse.”

Behind them, Jeff sees Tyler tapping nonchalantly at his watch. 

“I’ll do my best,” Jeff says, a repeat from earlier. He snatches the script out of P.K.’s fingers and adds, “Thanks, Doc. You’re the greatest.”

“That face is going to get you in trouble someday!” P.K. calls out, but when Jeff turns around, he’s already heading back in the elevator again, heading up to the Maternity ward.

Jeff smiles goodbye at Gally and makes it almost all the way down the street before Tyler’s grabbing his arm. He doesn’t tug hard, but Jeff’s balance right now is precarious at best, so he trips a little. Slightly. Enough that Tyler has to hold on to him tighter, anyway.

“You’re such a fucking mess, Skinny.”

Jeff’s limping next to him, being dragged along at a glacial pace. There aren’t a whole lot of ways he can disagree.

;;

There’s a Walgreens down the street from his place that’s great for a number of reasons (open 24 hours, always has Lucky Strikes stocked behind the counter), but the greatest is probably that every single time Jeff stops in, they never remember him.

He’s made his living being unforgettable; just bland enough to get by with charm and little else. Just quiet enough not to be seen and definitely not to be heard. He’s had prescriptions filled by the pharmacist behind the counter in back at least twelve times, and tonight, he squints at Jeff like he’s familiar, but still asks him if he’s new to the neighborhood.

“Yup,” Jeff agrees, smiling up his least memorable grin. 

Tyler’s standing a few feet over, out of sight of the security camera and fiddling with something on his phone that probably means he’s fiddling with something in the feed.

As far as Jeff can tell, he’s pretty much eviscerated every picture of himself that exists, save from some in their moms’ photo albums, and even those are up for contention.

“These are really strong,” the pharmacist says, handing over the white paper baggie carefully, _trepidatiously_ , like Jeff really might accidentally OD if he swallows too many. “I’d advise on only taking one, if you can stand it.”

Jeff’s halfway to popping a pill dry, but he stops for appearance’s sake. “It’s just a sprain,” he says brightly. “It should be fine. Thank you.”

He tries not to limp away too obviously, but Tyler still has to grip his upper arm to keep him steady, so he’s probably not doing as good a job as he should be.

The cash registers are up front, right by the exits, and Tyler moves to grab his wallet, but Jeff beats him to it. 

“What the hell,” he says, when they’re on the street a few seconds later. Tyler’s got his hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie like he’s just strolling along, but Jeff knows better. “My name is associated with that scrip, Segs.”

It sounds melodramatic to be saying it like that out loud, but it’s not entirely off the mark. 

Jeff Schneider and Tyler Shields don’t run in the same circles. They don’t have live in the same parts of town or watch the same movies or share any common interests. Having a link between the two of them, even such a tenuous one, is stupid. Theirs is a dangerous business by nature, but a lot of what they do, _most_ of what they do is gathering intel. They always have to be careful. 

;;

“Mr. Schneider,” Jimmy says, holding open the door. He’s smiling the smile of a person who isn’t a plant, but Jeff’s been around enough to know better. Somebody’s been keeping tabs on him, and no one sees him more frequently than the people that work in his building.

“Hey Jimmy,” he says, and doesn’t bother introducing Tyler as they push inside. “You have a nice evening.”

Tyler hums along with the muzak in the elevator, some bastardized version of a Beatles song, Jeff thinks. It only really occurs to him halfway to his door that this is the first time Tyler’s been to this apartment in person.

“Hey,” he says, skidding to awkwardly to a stop right in the middle of the hallway. “I don’t want to be that guy,” he starts, and Tyler starts laughing at him, which was pretty much the intended result. Sort of. “But are we doing this now? I thought we had an ‘only in case of emergencies’ apartment rule.”

It’s quiet for long enough that Jeff can start to pick out the sounds of his neighbors’ evenings. Mrs. Peterson next door always calls her daughter at quarter to five on weeknights, because she worries about her driving home in the dark. Dr. Heron down the hall listens to Bach while he cooks dinner.

He’s never met them, never stopped by to say hello, but these are the types of things he’s been trained to notice.

“I was just making sure you got home safe, man,” Tyler says eventually, holding his hands up like he’s about to surrender. “You’re injured and an asset. Now would’ve been the perfect time for someone to nab you and pump you for information. I was looking out. Also, you’ve been to my house, like, ninety times. I figured it was time.”

It still feels nice, like they’re normal buds coming home from a normal day. Jeff’s ankle twinges, and the baggie of pain meds goes a long way in disproving that.

“You’re not wrong, though,” Tyler says, finally looking serious. “I should get out of here.”

He leans forward, and maybe he’s going for a hug, maybe that’s all it is, but the last second has him veering slightly to the left and pressing a kiss to the downward curve of Jeff’s cheekbone, right by his nose.

“Rest up,” he adds, already backing down the hall. “Big day tomorrow.”

Jeff’s got an iPhone calendar filled with dates, cryptic notes to himself that only he and Tyler can read, but tomorrow’s a big nothing as far as he can remember. He shakes his head to clear it, but he’s still coming up blank. It’s a few days yet before they can tie the bow on the CEG exposure.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Tyler rolls his eyes, and then points down where Jeff’s still very obviously not pressing his weight to his injured side. The X-rays. Right. Shit.

“I have the painkillers now,” he hedges, holding up the pharmacy bag. “I don’t really have to go in, right? P.K. said it wasn’t broken.”

Tyler’s about to say something when the elevator dings on the other end of the hall. They crowd close together, instinctively alert, even though at least five of the people who live on this floor aren’t home yet.

The doors open. There’s no one inside.

“Shit,” Tyler hisses, shoving Jeff back against the door, even though it should probably be the other way around. “Duck.”

They’re both crouching when the bomb goes off.

;;

Someone, somewhere once told him that all emergency rooms are the same. Jeff’s tried his best to stay as far as possible from them over the years, but he’s willing to take that adage a step further: if emergency rooms are all intrinsically the same, he’s willing to bet that the guts of a hospital, all the the ins and outs of them, all run on a similar ebb and flow, too.

He’s awake for long enough to hear two nurses talking about their nights out, their crushes on random doctors, their desire to make the rec baseball league next summer, if they can manage enough nights off to tone up on their muscle mass.

His doctor isn’t P.K., not at first, at least, because he and P.K. aren’t linked in any public places, and besides, P.K.’s an obstetrician. By virtue of his doctor not being P.K., his doctor is also a dick.

“Mr. Schneider,” he says at some point when Jeff’s been awake for longer than five minutes in a row. He doesn’t have his phone or his backpack, so he doesn’t know what time or day it is. He doesn’t even know where Tyler is.

His mom is going to charter a flight to Massachusetts on her own if he doesn’t tell her about this before Jilly does.

“Yup.”

The doctor does something with his face that tries to pass for a smile. His lips are thin, disappear above his teeth, and Jeff starts counting backwards from 100 because it’s the only logical thing to do. 

“You were lucky the paramedics got to you in time, son,” the doctor says, and Jeff thinks: _53, 53, 53_ so he doesn’t do anything stupid. “Your injuries could have been much worse.”

Jeff’s polite, and he always has been, so he clears his throat and tries to regain his voice when he says, “Yes, sir. Thanks, for uh. Whatever part you had in that.”

“Were you aware you had a sprained ankle?” the doctor asks, and finally, a question Jeff can answer.

Smiling didn’t seem to work so well the last time he tried it, so Jeff changes tracks completely, nodding solemnly as he says, "I was hiking. Misjudged a drop. The ground looked a lot closer than it ended up being.”

The doctor hums, noting something on Jeff’s chart. He doesn’t respond, which is unnerving, but at least he doesn’t up the dosage of anything or glare menacingly before he leaves, doesn't make any threatening demands.

It’s something, anyway, and the next time Jeff opens his eyes, P.K.’s there, looking worried, but trying to hide it.

“Fuck you,” he groans when their eyes meet, but he’s coming closer, squeezing tight onto Jeff’s uninjured hand and breathing hard. “You know how fucking worried I was?”

Shrugging hurts, and it earns him a punch to the arm, but it’s not a dishonest movement. 

P.K. looks concerned, the care warring with his obvious professionalism, and that’s what snaps Jeff to attention, his training kicking in. 

“Where is Tyler?” he asks, and he’s been _trained_ , he knows what to look for, and P.K. doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away, or drop his gaze. When he shrugs, Jeff feels the bottom drop out of his stomach, and he has to drop back and close his eyes to keep his breathing steady.

“I don’t know,” P.K. says, and then, “Jeff, man, are you OK? You know he’ll be fine, right? Guys like Segs always are.”

 _Guys like Segs always are_ , Jeff thinks, and it should be comforting, but it’s not. His chest feels tight, his throat achy.

“What does that even mean?” he says. “‘Guys like Segs’.” 

P.K. shrugs again, but at least now he has the grace to look a little annoyed. Good. “You know,” he says.

“No,” Jeff says. “I have no idea. I don’t even know what time it is. None of my stuff is here, and I can’t—” 

P.K.’s face does something complicated, but the longer Jeff looks at him, the longer he looks back. If there’s one thing that’s been cleared up because of this whole clusterfuck, it’s that P.K.’s definitely on their side. The grip he has on Jeff’s arm is hard, painful even through the medically drug-administered haze. He’s not a good enough actor to turn that fear into anything else.

The official story is that there was a fire. Jeff’s building was old and not very large, not even six floors, counting the gym in the basement, and most of the damage was internal. It’s pretty much a miracle that no one died, despite the substantial amount of property damage.

He spends his first few days of homelessness obsessing over the thousands of tiny shards of glass still potentially embedded in his skin, and his first few weeks of homelessness on the phone with various members of his family, trying to convince them that he’s a real adult who can handle his business on his own.

“Just a couple stitches,” he says, when the call is passed to Ben again, who sounds worried in the way that only older brothers can, voice high-pitched and squeaky as he asks Jeff the same questions all six of the other people in the room have already covered.

Jeff laughs as best he can, trying not to move too much or make a lot of noise. Tyler’s on the phone with his own family in the other room. They have their stories straight, but it’s easier to tell them if they’re not together.

“I promise, I’ll make it. I had my laptop with me and everything, so I didn’t even lose too much.” 

If Ben is the worrier of the Skinner clan, Jeff’s the leaper, and so are their sisters. Ben’s the one who makes sure there are enough safety nets for the inevitable. 

“You are so lucky Mom can’t get away from the case she’s working,” he says eventually, and Jeff agrees. It’s true. “She’s still losing her shit that none of us are your emergency contact anymore.”

Jeff groans so loud that Tyler comes to stand in the hallway, brows raised like he’s waiting to hear about some new complaint. There’s nothing, though. This is what happens when you come from a big, boisterous family, with big, boisterous love for each other.

“Listen, I uh,” Jeff says, cutting Ben off from something else. It’s probably mean, it’s definitely mean, considering they don’t spend enough time together as it is, but Tyler’s looking at him expectantly, his own phone call on mute. It’s definitely time to go. “I gotta go, bud,” Jeff says. “I love you, okay? Tell Mom and Dad and everyone.”

“Fuck you,” Ben replies. “I love you.” They hang up without much else. 

;;

“So,” Tyler says, once they’re both off the phone. “I have okay news, bad news and worse news. Pick which one you want first.”

He’s frowning. Jeff frowns back. 

“Um, how about worse, and then move up?” 

It's always easier to deal with bad stuff if he knows something else is coming.

Tyler’s walking slow, still pretty banged up himself from the dislocated shoulder and the mild concussion, but he makes it to the couch in a couple of paces, dropping his iPhone on the coffee table and letting out a groan of his own.

“We’re off CEG,” he says, but he says it slow, like he’s afraid Jeff might snap at him over it.

Jeff doesn’t, if only because it’s not really information he can properly process. They’ve been working on taking down Clean Energy Group for the entirety of his career. It’s what he was recruited for. Sure, there have been other, smaller offshoots; diplomats that needed rescuing, blueprints that needed stealing, artwork returned to its rightful owners… but there has been nothing other than this.

He stares at his knees, because that’s easier than looking at Tyler’s bruised, disappointed face.

“I’m sorry,” he tries, and Jeff just. He loses it.

“What the _fuck_?” He shouts, angry and bitter, because this sucks. “It wasn’t even intel we gathered, it was handed over. It was—”

“Don’t.” Tyler cuts him off, shifting down on the couch until they’re next to each other, hands bumping. “Whatever you’re thinking right now, Skinny. Don’t. You’ll be wrong, and that’s not worth wasting our time over.”

He pats Jeff’s knee once and then makes some noise about taking a shower. Jeff watches as he limps away, cut badly enough on his torso and knees that he should probably have crutches or at least a cast of his own.

 _The Price is Right_ is on, and if he’s immobile for the moment, game shows are better than any remaining soap operas that might still be on. P.K. made him swear up and down he would stay off his feet for at least another week. Jeff probably won’t make it that long, but it’s the thought that counts, anyway. 

His phone is in reach, so he makes a grab for it, shooting P.K. a text that just says: _fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck you._

He hopes it gets his point across, and he’s not even surprised when P.K. just sends back a thumbs up emoji in return.

“What were the other two?” he asks when Tyler gets out of the shower. 

Tyler looks surprised to see him there, but he shouldn’t be, considering the furthest Jeff has moved from this spot is to go to the bathroom down the hall, and he even needs help to do that, most of the time.

“What?” Tyler asks. He’s wearing cut off sweats and shower shoes.

Jeff mutes the TV and clears his throat to give himself a minute. He’s easing off his meds slowly, but he’s still fuzzy a lot of the time.

“The other two,” he says eventually. “You said there was worse, not-so-bad and pretty okay. I’m assuming that getting fired for something we executed pretty good was the worst bomb.”

He makes a face at his own word choice, and Tyler mimics it.

“Sorry,” Jeff says, but Tyler waves him off. 

“Technically,” he says, eventually, fidgeting with his work iPhone again. “We’re not fired. I’ve still got, you know. There are other assets in the field that are in deep cover, and changing me as their handler right now would make an even bigger mess.”

He’d said _we_ , Jeff heard him, but that doesn’t make what he’s saying any more palatable.

He says as much out loud, says, “So the good news for you is that you get to keep working on stuff. Great.”

On screen, Drew Carey is giving an old lady a new car. Jeff would like a new car. Jeff would like a new life, thanks. He rolls his head against the back of the couch and wonders if he’s losing it because of the meds.

“Do you think Drew Carey can give us a new life?” he asks.

Tyler tries to stifle his laugh, but he doesn’t do that great a job of it. “Probably. How hard is a life to come by? Look at how many cars he gives away.”

;;

Being a handler is much different than being an asset, even if both job descriptions technically fall under the umbrella definition of ‘spy’. On a Tuesday, three weeks after the explosion, Tyler leans over the couch and says, “You need to be out of here by 1 today, okay?”

Jeff’s awake, has been up and playing Ski Safari on his phone for the last twenty minutes, but he still blinks, and then again when Tyler repeats himself.

“Uh, okay.” He pushes himself up on his palms, trying not to wince at the pull of the stitches there. Two more days and there’s going to be a mass exodus of sutures from his body and hopefully no more visits to public hospitals for a long, long time. “I didn’t—did you tell me I had to move out? I really don’t remember that at all.”

Tyler stares at him for almost a minute before he starts laughing, and then says, “Fuck off, dude, I meant for the afternoon. I have an agent coming in, and you can’t be around for the debriefing.”

And, oh. “Oh,” Jeff says. “That makes much more sense.”

He’s not sure if their bosses know where he’s been staying, if they know that Jeff would hang out with Tyler even if he didn’t have to. He’d bet that they don’t. It’s not exactly proper protocol.

“You should start looking for places, though,” Tyler says, leaning back. “When, you know. You can walk more than two feet at a time before getting winded.”

“Fuck off, winded,” Jeff grumbles, but he can feel his cheeks heating up, because yeah, he kind of does.

Tyler’s phone rings, some random Kylie Minogue song as the ringtone, and he says, “Seriously, before 1. I’ll text when you can come back, but it shouldn’t be past 5.”

He’s out in the hallway and quietly speaking into his phone before Jeff can respond either way.

“Got it,” he calls out, even though he’s pretty sure Tyler’s not listening anymore. Whatever.

Jeff leans back against the couch. He could probably go see a movie or something. Finally get to the MFA like he’s been saying he will for the last four years. Maybe he could book a room somewhere just to take a nap.

 _Hey_ , he texts P.K., even though that guy is probably at the hospital examining another agent or delivering an actual baby. _Want to hang out in a bit?_

P.K.’s given him the all-clear to walk around, mostly, but Jeff’s exercise routine has definitely fallen by the wayside, considering that sitting up for long periods of time and doing nothing is way less preferable to lying down and doing the same. He and Tyler have kept a pretty strict diet of egg-white omelets and leafy greens, but that doesn’t change the fact that with all scrapes and bruises, he hasn’t been able to do much but sit and he feels pretty gross about it.

 _Sure!!!!_ , P.K. texts back almost immediately. _How did you know it was my day off?_

He didn’t, but Jeff sends back: _Call it spy’s intuition._

He’s expecting it when P.K. responds with: _Spintuition, I like it!_ but it still makes him smile.

At 10, he takes the ten minute cramp and walk to the bathroom, takes nearly an hour to take a shower and wash his hair and makes it back out of the bathroom by 11:45. He’s mostly dressed, if a t-shirt and shorts counts as mostly.

Tyler’s not there when he leaves, so Jeff texts him on the elevator: _Out with Dr S. See you later._

;;

They’re meeting up at Harvard, because there’s a new burger place P.K. wants to try. Or maybe it’s an old burger place that got a facelift. Jeff’s not sure, but he’s been waiting for fifteen minutes already before his phone buzzes with an incoming call.

“Seriously?” he answers. “Just because it’s warm out doesn’t actually mean I like waiting around for you.”

There’s enough silence on the other end that Jeff has to check the view screen, and oh. It’s an unlisted number. Fuck.

“Um, sorry,” he stammers, making an even bigger ass of himself until the person at the other end of the line clears their throat.

“You have four hours,” a modulated voice says, and then that’s it. Cell phones don’t even give the satisfaction of a dial tone.

He’s been waiting for a while, so it stands to reason that he’s picked up a few details. There are at least twelve people in the immediate vicinity. Five women and three men are on their phones.

The elderly guy walking out of Peet’s and the two ladies texting in their yoga class can be discounted. So can the kid having a screaming match with someone on the ramp heading up to Staples.

There’s a woman speaking quietly into her phone, pressed up against the fence leading into the park, but she seems distracted, not like she’s counting down his potential demise.

Jeff peers around, and it’s the pivot that gets him, tripping a little on the uneven pavement. That’s when he sees Hall. It’s a split second thing, one moment he’s there and the next he’s gone, but even limping, Jeff knows he can catch him.

He’s gone ten steps, maybe twenty, when someone claps him hard on the shoulder. Peering over his shoulder doesn’t do him any good. It’s a bad move, a rookie move, but weirder things have happened than seeing a rival spy in the same city they both live and work in.

“Jeff Skinner,” says the guy hanging onto the back of his shirt. “What a surprise.”

The voice is familiar, but Jeff can’t place it until he remembers Hallsy running in the opposite direction, Hall and Black Dress Shoes. _Ebby._

“Hi, Ebs,” he volleys back, and this guy’s bland face is good, a solid mask of passivity, but he flinches when he hears his name, and it’s enough of a distraction that Jeff can get free. 

“How do you,” Ebby starts, but it’s not like he can’t put two and two together. “What do you want with him?”

Jeff stares, and Ebby stares back. Jeff couldn’t see the twitch in his jaw and the way his eyes keep moving, looking everywhere he can see from his position.

“What do you want with him?” Ebby repeats. He sounds a little desperate.

Jeff considers lying, but it wouldn’t do either of them much good. 

“I just got the weirdest fucking phone call, man,” he says. “I have four hours, some guy said. Didn’t much sound like Hallsy, but then I saw him heading down toward Berk’s, so either he wants some delicious mid-day pastries, or I should be following him before I get shot for standing still like an asshole.”

He’s expecting a smarmy smile. Something in Ebby’s face that spells out his pleasure at Jeff’s defeat, but instead, he gets nothing.

“It wasn’t us who called you,” he says quietly. “I have no idea what the fuck is going on.”

“What?” 

The thing is, Jeff is actually pretty good at his job. Got recruited straight out of school. Can kill a man at twenty paces and knows at least fifteen ways to do it without a gun. He can speak eight languages and has a black belt in karate, but that doesn’t do shit for him on a day like today.

He’s got nothing. There’s no intel to run with. No jumping off point.

“Skinner, what are you doing?” Ebby says, but Jeff holds his hand up to stop him. He’s thinking.

“I have to make a call,” he says, knowing that his phone is definitely bugged. Oh, well. He’ll run into whoever it is soon enough. “Be cool.”

Ebby rolls his eyes, but he pulls out his own phone, probably texting Hall.

Jeff thumbs in the number to the hospital, leaning his head back against brick wall. A tourist in front of the old American Express building across the street is taking pictures, and he turns in on himself, shielding his face from view.

Gally answers on the first ring. “Skinner! Long time no hear. What’s going on? How’s the ...everything?” He kind of laughs, but he also sounds sympathetic. Jeff’ll take it.

“Fine, good, yeah,” Jeff says, keeping his breathing regulated. “Is the doctor in? He around?”

On his end, Gally hums something, probably the muzak from the elevators as he clicks through his computer for the schedule.

“He’s in delivery right now,” he confirms. “Why, do you need him for something? I can page him.”

“Nah,” he says, taking one breath and then another, counting the seconds between them. “It’s fine. I can walk it off. Hey, listen. When he delivers the parasite, have him give me a call.”

“Sure,” Gally chirps, and Jeff hangs up without saying goodbye. 

He pockets his phone, leaning back against the brick again. When Jeff looks over his shoulder, the tourist is gone, but Ebby isn’t, staring back at him shrewdly.

“What was that?” he asks.

Jeff doesn’t bother to tell him. It won’t do either of them much good.

;;

Ebby follows him like a shadow, but considering he doesn’t know what the fuck is going on either, Jeff doesn’t really mind.

There’s a bubble tea place a few blocks down that has free wifi and little proprietor interference, so Jeff heads there, dropping his backpack down at a table against the far wall and pulling out his laptop.

“So we’re just going to sit here?” Ebby asks as he stands, tugging his credit card out of his wallet. 

“It’s cash only,” Jeff says, pulling out $5 and shoving it over without looking away from his computer. “Get yourself something small and they won’t bug us.” 

“Fuck off,” Ebby says, but he goes to stand at the back of the lengthy line of students that’s starting to form.

His phone buzzes with a text. Tyler’s written: _Got done earlier than I thought I would. You guys eat yet? I could go for Japanese if you’re paying._

Jeff’s not stupid. Looking out for him is Tyler’s job. Having him running intel would be ideal here. He’d be able to trace the call. He’d be able to pull up satellite info. Maybe he’d even know what was going on. Jeff should totally fill him in.

 _Can’t, sorry_ , he sends back and drops his phone in his backpack. Keeping Tyler safe is the prime directive. Jeff might be expendable, but Tyler isn’t. 

Ebby comes back to the table a few minutes later looking disgruntled. He sits across from Jeff, legs barely fitting under the table, and does a great job at looking petulant, glaring holes into the chipping green paint behind Jeff’s head.

“Find anything?” he asks after a minute. 

Jeff shrugs. His phone doesn’t buzz again for a while, the two of them working silently. Or. Jeff is working, cycling through agency email, looking for clues. He has no idea what Ebby’s doing.

He could be playing Candy Crush right now, and Jeff would have no way of knowing, because of the stupid wallet case on his phone.

“How do you know this isn’t Hall’s game?” he asks idly, just to see if it’ll make Ebby mad all over again. 

Jeff can see the way the flush circles under his skin. It looks like that vein is about to pop out of his forehead. It’s easier to rile him up than for Jeff to think that they have two hours and forty minutes left on this ridiculous fucking timeline and no clues to work off of.

“How do I know that _what_ isn’t Hallsy’s game?” Ebby asks, but at least he finally sets his phone down, so that’s something.

Jeff leans back in his seat, trying to seem at ease. His heart is racing.

“I saw him, man,” Jeff continues. “He was running in the opposite direction from us, but you came with me instead of chasing after him.” The more he talks, the more it make sense, and Jeff feels his stomach seize with the kind of nervous regret that comes after lost cases and lost lives. “Are you setting me up? If anything happens to.” He swallows around the heavy knot in his throat and keeps his tone conversational and calm. “If you’re lying to me, I will personally make it my mission to make the rest of your admittedly short life hell.”

He caps it with a smile that Ebby doesn’t return. Good. He feels less smug when Ebby leans forward, trapping Jeff’s wrist to the table, fingers rough and thick. 

“Listen to me,” he says, voice near silent. “I’m sick of you. Just tell me who’s got Taylor going on this crazy fucking wild goose chase and I’ll let you go.”

“You’ll _let_ me go?” Jeff needles, can’t resist, his mind is going a million miles an hour. He tugs his hand out of Ebby’s grip, turning to his computer again.

They’ve been played. The pieces of the puzzle are falling too fast for him to grasp each and every one, but it’s plain as day. Someone is playing both sides against the middle. It’s a simple strategy, but a 

“You guys are on CEG too, right?” Jeff asks after a silent minute. Ebby is still glaring at him, but anybody with a gap that big between his teeth sucking on a bright pink boba tea is pretty difficult to take seriously. 

“Why?” Ebby asks eventually, but Jeff ignores the question and just glares at him instead. When ten seconds of silence pass, Ebby says, “Yes. We are. Answer the question. The only way to take him down is from the inside, so we…”

He keeps talking, but Jeff isn’t listening. Of course this has to do with Clean Energy. The last four years of his life have been devoted to practically nothing else. There’s a mole in their ranks, but who?

“...the first workable piece of intel we got for that case in months was for the event at the Gardner last month. All we had was your name.” 

He looks over and makes eye contact, nodding once. It’s the only apology Jeff’ll get for them bugging his apartment. The language of spies is mostly a silent one.

“Come on,” he says, rolling to his feet and trying not to wince at the still sharp ache in his bones. 

Ebby hasn’t finished his tea. He doesn’t look comfortable, but he doesn’t look like he’s moving anytime soon, either. 

“In case I didn’t make it super clear before, I’m not going anywhere with you,” he says, petulantly. 

“You’ve already gone somewhere with me,” Jeff says patiently. “Don’t waste any more of my fucking time. We both know your boy is going to need a hand.” 

It’s only a few blocks down to the Harvard Sq. T stop, and Jeff knows he should keep up a steady stream of nonsense, make it look like they’re two normal guys, out doing normal guy things, but he can’t stop his mind from whirring, from planning out their next step. He’s so close. 

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Ebby asks, and Jeff should, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he will. 

The van at the light swerves, edging onto the sidewalk so quick it almost takes out a group of Greek pedestrians.

“ _Get down_ ,” is what Jeff says instead, hissing the words from behind his teeth, and that’s when the gunshots start. 

;;

The basement isn’t nearly as dank as he would have expected. Jeff doesn’t have a lot of hope about the lairs of criminal masterminds, but he’s impressed by the lack of florescent lighting and spiders. He’s surprised by how relieved he is to see Ebby on a cot a few feet over, too. They might not be on the same side, but without his backpack or Tyler in his ear, a comrade in the fight against a bigger evil is all he can ask for. 

“Ebby,” he hisses, trying not to move his mouth too much, in case they’re being monitored. If there’s sound as well as video, they’re probably fucked anyway. 

Everything about the last few months has felt sloppy and immediate. Security feeds from old buildings like this are usually only equipped with video, if they’re equipped with anything at all. The idea that someone would kit out this room for the sole purpose of tripping Jeff up is a little too far-fetched for him to contemplate. 

“Ebby,” he whispers again, starting to feel that familiar crest of panic coursing through him until he shifts, settling onto his side.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, swiping his free hand over his eyes.

“Do you remember being brought in here? Do you know where our stuff might be?” He doesn’t ask: _do you have a plan?_ because it’s a stupid question. He doesn’t know what government agency Ebs and Hall work for, but if they’ve come up against him and Tyler and the agency and gotten this far, then they’ve been trained by the best.

Ebby closes his eyes for a second, and says, “I remember gunshots. You warning me to get down. And.” He pauses, opening his eyes again, “Chloroform? That can’t be right.” 

Jeff shrugs. It’s about the same conclusion he came to, too. 

“Yeah. I don’t remember how they got so close,” he says. “But yeah. Which is fucked up, but.” He pauses for long enough to roll his eyes. “If you work with me, I think we can get this shit sorted out.”

“Lemme guess,” Ebby says, and his tone sounds snide, but there’s a hint of a smile in it. “You have a plan.”

Jeff shrugs as well as he can with one of his hands badly cuffed against this radiator. 

“I have an idea,” he says. “I guess it’ll have to do.”

Whoever their assailants are, they aren’t exactly thorough. Jeff doesn’t still have access to his backpack, but he does have all the gear he’d strapped on his body. The knives are still wrapped around his thigh, and the burner he keeps tucked inside the hidden sleeve of his hoodie is still there.

“What the fuck,” Jordan says, “is that?” He’s eyeing Jeff’s flip phone like he’s never seen one before in his life. 

“C’mon, man. Sometimes you need something practically untraceable. That’s like, Handling Volatile Assets 101, isn’t it?”

Ebs refrains from rolling his eyes, but it looks like it’s a real struggle. “I know what it is, asshole. Where did you get it?”

“Pat yourself down,” Jeff says. “I bet you still have all your secret gadgets, too.”

“I don’t have gadgets,” Ebs mutters, but Jeff watches openly as he does a self-check. He looks surprised at the end of it. “What the fuck is this?”

There’s not a ton of service down here—most Boston basements have shitty service, even when they aren’t evil secret lairs—but if he wedges himself by the tiny window in the corner, he can get a bar or two. 

_Won’t be home for dinner_ , he texts. His throat feels tight, and if he lets himself feel it, the weight of the last two months might actually crush him.

Tyler’s response is immediate: _damn. I got chinese. What’s your ETA? It’ll hold in the fridge._

Jeff bites his lip and types, _IDK, bro. We might be lost._

Tyler doesn’t text him back, but Jeff has known him long enough not to worry. He only looks up from the phone when Jordan clears his throat pointedly. 

“Do you, like, want to fill me in, maybe, or should the giggling and texting have clued me into something important?”

Jeff wants to brush it off, wants to keep things close to the vest in case this all blows up spectacularly, but it’s not like they have anything better to do with their time. 

“I know what happened,” he says, and it takes a minute, but eventually, Jordan looks like he believes him.

;;

Jeff’s been involved in a both sides of an extraction, so when he tells Ebs to duck again, he really means it. 

“Keep your head down,” he shouts, and thirty seconds later, everything goes dark. The smell of tear gas is familiar, but not entirely unwelcome. He has just enough air to tell Ebs to keep his mouth and nose covered, and then hides his face in his arms, counting down from 100.

He’s done at least five counts of it before someone’s touching his arm, and when he looks up, steeling himself for the barrel of a gun, he’s surprised, but not entirely shocked to see Zdeno Chara peering down at him, dressed in black, like a giant grasshopper dipped in chocolate.

“Let’s go,” he says, and Jeff’s not sure if he’s always sounded this quiet, or if it’s just the ringing in his ears.

“Ebs,” he tries, his own voice weak and tight. Chara gestures minutely, and Jeff gets an eyeful of Ebs hugging a slightly shorter chocolate grasshopper with a flash of gold hair visible under his toque. 

“Let’s go,” Chara repeats. “You’re with me.” 

This is how it goes, Jeff thinks. The likelihood that he ever sees either Ebs or Hall again is slim—hell, after the stunt they pulled, the likelihood he ever sees _Tyler_ again is pretty fucking slim—but friendships made and lost in the field are always the oddest; too much emotion packed in a too short amount of time with too many shared experiences and too little resolution. 

In the car, a slick black Audi with tinted windows, Chara folds his bloodied hands together easily over his lap and says, “How did you figure it out?” 

Jeff shrugs. His throat is still raw from the gas, and he’s not a doctor like P.K. is, but he can always tell when something’s broken, and more than one something is. 

“Jeffrey,” Chara says, and Jeff snaps back to attention, hearing that slight wisp of an accent again. “Explain.”

“It didn’t make sense,” he says, after a while. “I should’ve seen it sooner, but I was... distracted.” He stares straight through the dash, trying not to think of Tyler. “Segs and me, we’d been on CEG for what, three years? Three years and some change? And the first strong, workable of intel we got didn’t come until the the Gardner Museum gala. Even when it came in, it was in pieces—didn’t want us to get suspicious, but really, what did it say?” 

He pauses, a tickle in his throat. It turns into hacking coughs the longer he tries to ignore it. Chara gestures his head again, and there’s a bottle of water thrust from out of the backseat like clockwork. Jeff knows better than to peek over his shoulder. 

“All we got was that there was someone else there we had to implicate,” he starts. “There’s a delicate balance to these things, you know? Take down Taylor Hall and… what? Presumably, the whole system would crumble.”

“Gallagher,” Chara cuts in smoothly. His mouth is drawn into a frown, but he’s not outright scowling. Jeff’s never seen him look amused, but he’s betting that this is probably the closest he’ll ever get. 

“He’s smart enough to play both sides against the middle,” he says. “He’s P.K.’s guy. He always has been. He knows our schedules, he knows our faces, our real names, and he gets full, behind-the-scenes access to the guy that patches up our problems with a smile. It’s so obvious.” 

Jeff lets his head fall back against the rest, exhausted from the talking, and the day, and everything. He’s always liked Gally. That’s probably the point. 

“Obvious,” Chara agrees, “yes.” 

He throws the car into drive as easily as he’s done everything else. For a giant, he sure has some moves. Jeff lets himself get lulled by the car, and the cool water.

“We don’t have to kill him, right?” Of all the questions to ask the most senior agent in their operation on what’s probably the first and only time they’ll ever be alone together, this is not the one Jeff would have expected of himself. Maybe he’s as soft a touch as Segs is always saying he is. Chara looks startled, so that’s at least a win. 

“Gallagher?” he asks. 

Jeff takes a breath, letting it out in the slow increments P.K.’s taught him to and tries to sound like a reasonable adult. “Gally, P.K., the nurses… everybody over there, I guess. I know the agency is big on seeing things through, and he’s technically a bad guy, right? But it’s Gally. I can’t.” 

If his life were a movie, this is where montage of all the moments he’s ever shared with Brendan Gallagher would go, he’s sure of it. There have been hundreds, over the years, maybe thousands. Gally’s been the thick of everything, ever since he and Tyler got assigned here. It’s actually mind boggling, how stupid everyone has been.

Chara clears his throat and says, “You can’t?”

“I mean, I will,” Jeff hurries to say. “If you tell me to, I will.” 

“No,” Chara says, eventually. The Audi pulls up in front of Tyler’s building, magicking street parking out of nowhere. 

Jeff takes one breath, and then another. 

“No?” he asks. In for a penny, in for a pound. 

Chara doesn’t sigh, or pinch his nose, or do any of the things Segs always does when Jeff is being particularly exasperating. Maybe he’s not the worst employee the agency has ever had after all. That’d be nice.

“No,” Chara repeats calmly. “You won’t have to kill him, Mr. Skinner.” He doesn’t say: _no one will_ or _not on my watch_ or _babyfaced kids the size of teacup poodles don’t deserve to die for being criminal masterminds_. Jeff doesn’t have to do it, though, and that’s enough of a mercy to keep him from asking too many more questions.

The silence stretches between them before Jeff says, “OK, so… I should go, right? Do I have to ask you what happens next, or will a carrier pigeon bring the news to my door?”

Chara not-frowns at him again. “You can’t stay here.”

For a second, Jeff thinks he means that staying with Tyler would put them into even more danger. It doesn’t make any sense, but the agency does take their “no fraternization rule” pretty seriously. He’s not going to ask. 

“I guess I can go get some new stuff,” he mumbles, because Chara is staring at him intensely enough that he has to say something. 

Chara blinks. 

“You are being reassigned,” he says, and the tickle in Jeff’s throat goes from a nuisance to a fire breathing dragon in less than five seconds. He drains the bottle of Poland before he can succumb to another coughing fit, and turns it over in his palms to give himself something to do. 

Forget not sharing an apartment, having to move out of Tyler’s city is going to be hell. Fuck.

“Just,” he manages. “Just me, or, like. Am I getting a new—”

This time, Chara does roll his eyes. He’s still not smiling, but maybe this is a start. “Mr. Seguin will be joining you.” 

;;

Tyler doesn’t speak to him for three days. Jeff’s asleep for a good 36 of those hours, worn out and exhausted and blessedly missing the worst of Gally’s take-down, but when he wakes up in Tyler’s Back Bay apartment, it’s to silence, and not only because he’s alone.

They’ve been reassigned, and mercifully together, but there’s still busy work to be taken care of. Not all of Tyler’s assets can come with them. They’ll have to be reassigned, too, and that takes time. Time and paperwork.

“I literally never want to see another piece of paper again,” Jeff says, on the Tuesday after. Jeff Schneider doesn’t exist anymore. In his place, is Josh Silverstone, a vet tech new to Texas with a peanut allergy and a twin brother still living in Alberta. “Swear to god, if I have to sign my name one more time, I’ll literally cut my hand off. Or maybe it’ll fall off. Who knows?”

Jeff laughs at his own joke, cutting his eyes across to where Tyler is filling out his own paperwork on the other side of the coffee table. If Tyler senses his gaze, he doesn’t say anything, humming tunelessly under his breath, but not looking up. 

“Do you think I’ll get vet training?” Jeff asks. “I mean, I’m going to have a storefront. It might just be a cover, but what if little old ladies drop by, man? Little old ladies and their indoor chinchillas? Does the agency offer chinchilla training? Is there a book I can read?” 

Tyler’s hands flex on the pen he’s writing with, and Jeff is openly staring, so he watches the way his cheeks redden, the way his teeth sink into his lower lip in frustration. 

“Do you ever shut up?” he asks, his voice low and vicious. 

It’s meant to be hurtful. Tyler knows how to cut to the quick more painfully than anybody, and distantly, Jeff thinks he should be affronted, or mad, even, but he can’t muster up the energy. At least Tyler’s talking to him again. 

“Not really,” he agrees cheerfully, grinning, and this is normally the part where Tyler grins back at him against his better judgement. It’s definitely the part in their banter where Tyler breaks his gaze and turns away to roll his eyes fondly. They have a system.

Tyler doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, he says, “Why didn’t you call me?” 

Jeff doesn’t play dumb. He could. He wants to. The last three months have involved an incredible amount of upheaval, so he’d be more than justified in being confused. 

Instead, he says, “I wanted to keep you safe.” 

The words feel uncomfortable in his mouth, but they’re the truth. He watches as Tyler flinches. Watches as he flexes his hands again, like he’d rather throw a punch than continue this conversation. 

“That’s not your call!” He doesn’t shout, but his voice is raised. “It’s my job to keep you safe, you dickhead. It’s literally my job to get your sorry ass out of messy scrapes.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is even tighter than before. “You could have died.” 

The fact that his voice is shaking is the only reason Jeff doesn’t laugh out loud. Considering their line of work, Jeff considers every day that doesn’t end with a body bag a success, and says as much.

“We weren’t exactly expecting to grow old when we took this job, right?” he asks. “If you really wanted a nice vet tech named Josh, maybe you should have gone to Texas first, huh?”

“I don’t,” he says, and finally, he looks up. “I’m still really fucking pissed at you,” he adds, but the hint of the smile is back. “But that doesn’t mean I want anybody else hanging around.” 

Jeff ignores the traitorous fluttering in his chest as he says, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Tyler agrees, rolling his eyes. “You know how hard it would be to break in someone new?”

;;

Their flight has been delayed so many times that their luggage not only arrived in Dallas before them, it probably has its own shipping address. That’s what they get for trying to move out of Boston in the wintertime. The city needs to get its retribution somehow. 

When they finally get off the plane, the humidity in the air is so thick, Jeff’s t-shirt is sticking to him, even in the freezing cold of the baggage claim.

Tyler’s standing with his hands in his shorts pockets, snapback tilted askew. He’s chewing ice and tapping his foot like it’s an olympic sport. Jeff wants to kiss him more than he wants to take a shower. He wants to kiss him more than he wants to go to see his stuff again. He wants to kiss him more than he wants to eat or sleep or lie down, even. 

“Hey,” he says, and Tyler’s gaze is quick to jump to his, always. “Hey, c’mere.” 

Tyler’s mouth may be frowning, but the rest of him isn’t. 

“Hey,” he says, “hey, why?” He comes over regardless, stopping about a foot away and smirking.

They’re grinning at each other like idiots. Jeff is pretty sure there’s something about this that P.K. used to warn him over—some delayed reaction hysteria that should be checked out immediately, and by a mental health care professional—he’ll get to it eventually. 

“I want to kiss you,” he says, and for once, it’s out loud. His voice is at normal pitch. They aren’t drunk. He swallows, and repeats himself, because Tyler has been silent for way too long. “I want to kiss you. Can I kiss you, please—”

Tyler kisses him first, but they’ll argue about the semantics later.


End file.
